


Chaos By Another Name

by shatteredhourglass



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Alternate Universe, Awkward Love Confessions, Bodyswap, But All Of The Alternate Universes, Clint Barton Feels, Dimension Travel, Dragons, Drunken Shenanigans, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Feels, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hospitals, M/M, Monsters, Outer Space, POV Clint Barton, Road Trips, Sharing a Bed, Temporary Character Death, This Is Just. A Whole Ass Mess, Time Travel, Vormir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:48:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23477989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: Alternatively, Clint and Bucky's messy dimension-hopping time-travel adventure.(It's definitely Clint's fault.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 114
Kudos: 334





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hawksonfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawksonfire/gifts).



> This word document was lovingly labelled "MESS" and that is what it is. Nonetheless, I'm kind of proud of it. I also blame Arson, who demanded like twenty tropes in one fic.

“Shit,” Clint says as he watches Sam narrowly swing out of the way of a beam of blue light and nearly hit a wall. His wings are smoking already and Clint waves to get his attention, points back to where Tony’s working from a van.

“Might be time for a tactical retreat,” Sam says.

Clint’s inclined to agree. The people they’re up against have already broken down Tony’s suits beyond repair. Everyone’s off-world except for Sam, Tony, and- oh _shit_ , Bucky’s still down there with the super-powered woman with too many hands.

“Retrieving Barnes,” he says into his earpiece, dives off the roof and grabs for a low-hanging rope that’s caught between two beams. Bucky’s earpiece died ten minutes ago. The rope holds (thankfully) and Clint slides down at a speed that’s a little too fast for his liking, and he can only thank whatever’s out there that he wore two gloves today.

He hits a ledge on the first floor and lets go of the rope, scans around.

He spots Bucky first, stalking down the road with his gun in one hand and scratching his head with the other. His hair’s getting a little overgrown - Clint does Bucky’s haircuts for him but they’d gotten distracted with video games and beer the last time he’d come over. It’s flopping over Bucky’s forehead and Clint hopes he remembers to fix it later.

Clint jumps down to the sidewalk and that’s when he sees the woman they’re trying to knock out.

She hasn’t noticed him yet and he reaches for an arrow slowly, dropping into a crouch. His hand connects with empty air.

_Fuck_. When did he run out?

He glances up and she’s looking at Bucky now, boots silent on the concrete and rubble, arms reaching out into the air. Shit. He’s out of options and Bucky’s closer to him than she is, so he breaks into a run.

The woman aims her hand directly at Bucky and he’s not _looking_ , he’s too busy trying to pick something off the ground. Clint sees her fingers start glowing and doesn’t even take a second to think about it before he dives to knock Bucky out of the way, anything else be damned.

He connects with Bucky’s side and the force is enough to move Bucky out of the range of the blast. It’s not enough that Clint himself can avoid it, though. A cold burn sizzles through his skin and he doesn’t quite register that he’s been hit until his legs give out from under him.

Somehow he ends up on his back flat on the ground, blinking slowly.

When he manages to focus, Bucky’s leaning over him. There’s a cut above his eyebrow that’s already healing and Clint feels guilty for a second.

“Bucky, I feel weird,” he tries to say, but it comes out all slurred.

His limbs aren’t going where he wants them to. Is he dying? He’d always sort of guessed he’d die trying to protect one of his friends but he’d expected it to be Nat, not Bucky. Then again, Nat’s never needed protecting. Bucky needs protecting because he likes hunting for pennies in the middle of battle.

They’re supposed to play Mario Kart later. It was the tiebreaker. Clint was going to win with Waluigi and then Bucky would owe him fifty bucks for it. (Yes, he’s technically rich, but it’s more about the satisfaction of winning.)

“You fucking _twit_ ,” Bucky says.

That’s not very friendly of him. And after Clint just saved his ass, too. Where’s the _thank you, Clint, I appreciate the save?_ Clint tries to say so, but then Bucky’s head snaps to the side and a glowing blast hits him directly in the face. Clint’s too woozy to cry out and Bucky sprawls onto the concrete next to him, elbow knocking into Clint’s.

Clint stares up at the sky.

As he watches, it starts going a rather worrying shade of red. The clouds turn black and swirling and Clint’s left with the distinct impression that if he lives, he’s not going to like what comes next.

He wishes Bucky had gotten out of it, though.

“Fuck,” he says.

He passes out a second later.

There’s something licking his mouth.

Something licking _in_ his mouth, which Clint certainly isn’t expecting seconds after waking up.

…did he get laid last night? He doesn’t remember picking anyone up, but it’s a possibility. Sometimes he gets it in his head that he’s twenty-five and cheerfully slutty again and this happens. (He’s mostly slutty for a good pizza and a nap, nowadays.) Then the heavy weight on top of him lets out a happy _woof_ and he groans.

“Gross, doggo,” he mutters, shoves Lucky to the side so he isn’t being quite as squashed.

His back hurts.

Clint keeps his eyes closed as he curls in a little tighter on his couch, face pressed into the cushions. The smell is familiar when he inhales and it settles the queasy feeling in his stomach. This is just completely normal day, why does he feel so… off? Maybe he did get drunk after all. Did he go out last night?

Lucky dances around his feet when he finally gives up and gets off the couch. He dodges the dog with well-practiced ease and makes his way to the coffeepot before he fills Lucky’s bowl. Sunlight’s streaming through the gaps in his curtains and Clint squints at it briefly before he fishes out a mug from the sink. It’s only a little dirty, whatever.

It’s when he finally gets the first sip of life-giving, beautiful coffee that he remembers.

No, he didn’t go out last night.

It wasn’t even _night_ , the last time he remembers. He’d been on a mission chasing after people trying to blow up the city and take prisoners to experiment on, and then it had started going wrong. He’d been getting Bucky because he couldn’t leave Bucky behind, and then-

What the fuck? Was it all a crazy dream?

He can still feel the cold burn when he thinks about it, though. It’s unsettling enough that he grabs his jacket and keys to get a cab to the Tower to find the team, tapping his fingers against his thigh impatiently.

“Stark Tower,” he says when he gets in the cab.

“Never heard of it. Where’s that?”

Clint frowns. “It’s… seriously, dude? How long have you been in New York?”

“Twenty years,” the guy says, glaring at him through the rearview mirror. “Give me a place that exists or you can get the fuck out.”

“Fine, fine,” Clint answers, shoving open the door. He’ll just take the goddamn bus, then. What kind of an idiot spends twenty years in New York and doesn’t notice the massive eyesore in the middle of Manhattan?

The bus is running late when he makes it to the closest stop.

Clint sighs and leans against a lamppost, looks up at the sky. It’s completely normal - a lovely shade of blue even, with a hint of grey to it. He’s relieved to see it. Man, what a fucking weird dream that was. Beams of light? The sky going red? Then again, that’s the Avengers for you.

The bus pulls up and Clint frowns at the _Tony Stark, Millionaire Philanthropist_ poster on the side. Normally the public press about Tony is either slander or something about Iron Man, not… this. He’s wearing overalls and standing in a field. Clint’s uncomfortable.

He gets on the bus anyway, manages to scrounge up the cash to get on his way. He’s going to tell Bucky all about the weird dream. Well, maybe not the whole ‘jumps in front of him to save his life’ thing, because he’s pretty sure Bucky would get mad about that. The dream got that part right, at least. Still, Bucky might get a kick from how wild it was.

The bus pulls up a few streets from Stark Tower and Clint hops off, nervous energy bubbling up from his feet. Everything’s fine but he still feels unsettled and _off_ , and he’s not sure why. Everything’s fine.

He turns the corner and stops.

He stops because everything is not fine, because the Tower he’s been staying at on-and-off for the last five years is gone. There’s a cafe where the reception should be, and Clint checks to make sure he’s in the right place before he goes back to staring.

Oh, that’s not good. That’s _very_ not good.

The only thing left to do is to go home and call Natasha - he’s hoping that Natasha’s still around, because this is all too weird to deal with if he doesn’t have someone watching his back.

He turns around and nearly trips over someone’s feet as he does. Clint regains his balance after a second and glances back at the group of people to grumble at them, and that’s when he sees a familiar head of scruffy brown hair.

Oh, thank _fuck_.

“Bucky,” Clint calls. Luckily he’s tall enough to see over the crowds easily and equally as easy to recognize, so when Bucky stops and turns around their eyes meet instantly.

…were Bucky’s eyes always that pretty?

As Clint looks at him it feels like the world slows down, Bucky’s hair waving in the breeze gently.

“ _What the fuck_ ,” Bucky says, and even though Clint can’t hear it he knows how to lipread _that_ well enough. It also helps that Bucky is definitely in slow motion, except now there’s red flower petals falling down from somewhere.

It looks like some shit from a movie. There’s music coming from somewhere that he can’t quite pinpoint, and when he looks back, Bucky’s gone.

Clint’s very inclined to agree with Bucky’s _what the fuck_ right now.

He can’t find Bucky after that.

It’s not that he doesn’t _try_ , but once he’s gotten back to normal human speed and swatted off all the petals, there’s no sign of him. Clint’s a fairly decent tracker but it’s hard when you’re in a place that’s almost the same but different, and especially when there’s no sign of the person you’re looking for.

Eventually he gives up and heads for the closest bar, which happens to be celebrating someone’s birthday. Clint finds a spot at the bar and avoids eye contact with any of the people singing, orders the cheapest beer on the menu.

It tastes like water, mostly, which is fine because he’s eyeing off the liquor display. Getting blackout drunk seems more and more like a good idea as the night goes on. The bartender is looking at him like they think he’s going to jump over the counter and steal it all.

The sports on the television is the right date, but there’s no mention of anyone he recognizes. He can’t find Natasha in the phone books and there’s no mention of Steve anywhere.

“Ugh,” and he slumps facedown on the counter, ignoring the sticky texture of the wood.

If he dies, he dies.

“What can I get you?”

The guy sitting down next to him sighs. His voice is strikingly familiar, the low gravel of it vibrating up Clint’s spine. “Whatever’s strongest. Hell, give me the whole goddamn bottle, I’m havin’ a day.”

Clint lifts his arm so he can blink at Bucky handing over a wad of cash to the bartender. “Oh. Hi.”

“Hey,” Bucky says, uncaps the bottle so he can take a swig. The immediate grimace makes Clint smile. “You’ve got a pistachio stuck to your face.”

Clint flicks it off and sits up. Bucky lets him steal the bottle for a few swallows and then takes it back. “What kind of a day are you having?”

“Oh, you know,” Bucky says. “Woke up, had pancakes for breakfast, fought some superpowered bad guys and then wound up in an alternate dimension where none of that exists, and people keep asking me whether my hand is real.”

“Sounds pretty bad,” Clint agrees. “Wasn’t a dream, then?”

“If you remember it too, I’m thinkin’ it’s real,” Bucky says.

Huh. How about that. He’s not going insane after all - although, he’s not sure if it’s a relief or not. Bucky pushes off of his barstool and heads for the door, and after paying for an extra bottle of Quadrupled Whiskey he follows.

They end up sitting on Clint’s fire escape looking at the bricks of the building opposite, passing the bottles back and forth. There’s not anything else to do. They’re not the planners of the group, they’re just the point-and-fire guys and neither of them are equipped to deal with alternate world shenanigans.

“There’s no superheroes here,” Bucky says. “No Captain America. No Iron Man. No Winter Soldier, no Hawkeye.”

“I’m always Hawkeye,” Clint answers. “There’s circus posters in my apartment.”

“No Hawkeye the superhero, smartass,” Bucky says.

They fade into silence. Shit, no superheroes. He’s not smart enough to make some kind of dimension-hopping technology to take them back, and Bucky can barely work the tv remote some days. He didn’t even graduate high school. Does he have to get a job at the local McDonald’s now? Clint doesn’t have the patience to put up with customers.

“Maybe I can fix the icecream machine,” he mutters to himself.

“Please don’t go crazy on me,” Bucky says. “Or, crazier than usual. You’re all I’ve got.”

Clint snorts. All he’s got. “Can I get blackout drunk, at least?”

Bucky looks at the bottle in his hand, looks back at Clint. “Sure, why the fuck not. When in Rome.”

“Oh fuck,” he groans.

Clint’s head’s _killing_ him, what the hell. His skull feels like it’s been ruthlessly fucked by one of those bad dragon dildos. He’s laying on what feels like a couch and there’s a heavy, solid weight on top of him. Does the dog ever give up on trying to smother him in the night? It’s comforting in its own way, but Clint’s lungs are being squashed.

He doesn’t need to get up. He doesn’t need to get up ever again.

Clint’s just going to lie here until he grows mold, and no one will dare suggest he works at McDonald’s.

“Barton, don’t die on my couch,” Tony says. “That fabric costs more than your entire life.”

“Fuck off, Stark,” Clint says automatically.

His eyes snap open a second later and he stares up at Tony’s unimpressed face, yellow-tinted glasses perched on the end of his nose. It’s then that he realizes he’s laying on top of one of the fancy sofas in the penthouse of the Tower, and his headache is getting worse.

“Shit, we’re back,” he says. “Bucky-”

The lump on top of him grunts and burrows harder into his armpit. Clint lifts his head to blink at it blearily and realizes it’s not Lucky, it’s _Bucky_ , and their names are far too similar for his liking. Bucky’s also lost his shirt at some point, and Clint’s belt has been replaced with a pink feather boa.

He gets a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, shakes him. “Buck. We’re back in the real world, man, wakey-wakey.”

“Fuck off,” Bucky says, echoing Clint’s earlier statement.

Clint’s a little more antagonistic than Tony is though, so he tugs on Bucky’s hair to get his attention instead. Bucky smacks his hand away and then seems to register what he’d said, sits up quickly and then grimaces. Apparently supersoldiers aren’t immune to hangovers after all.

He’s also sitting in Clint’s lap like he _belongs_ there, which is a new development.

It’s probably just the alcohol.

“Thank _fuck_ ,” Bucky says, the sheer relief on his face enough to make Clint smile.

“Am I allowed to ask what the hell happened last night?”

Clint shifts his attention back to Tony. “Fucking alternate dimension, man. Whatever that woman hit us with was some heavy shit, there was rose petals and no Avengers and I didn’t want to sell fries to teenagers, Tony, they’re too sassy for me-”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about, but I was talking about _that_ ,” Tony says and points at Clint’s hand.

Clint looks at his hand as well.

There’s a ring on it.

“Not again,” he says, and looks up to see Bucky’s equally concerned expression.

“ _Again?_ ”

That’s when he notices the matching gold band on Bucky’s left hand. Ah, shit. How much did they drink last night? It’s a better option than being accidentally married to Tony, for sure, or- well, anyone else he can think of. Bucky’s his best friend, apart from Natasha. They still shouldn’t be married.

“Do you remember if this was legal?”

“Don’t know,” Bucky says grimly.

“Ah, we’ll figure it out,” Clint says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “At least we’re in the right place now. Does it even count if we get married in a completely different universe?”

“Boys,” Natasha says in greeting, wandering past them. Clint offers a half-hearted wave and a glance before he turns back to Bucky, and the only thing that tips him off is the way Bucky’s staring with his mouth open. It’s kind of comical, really.

“What’s wrong?”

“We’re not in the right place,” Bucky says, and Clint glances over at Natasha and realizes he’s right.

He’s right because Natasha is about six feet tall now, and decidedly missing a lot of her usual... traits. Clint hadn’t really noticed (or cared) at first glance, but he can tell now that she isn’t his Natasha, because his Natasha doesn’t have anywhere near that many tattoos, and she usually has breasts.

“Romanov,” Tony says. “Your idiots have gotten married now.”

“Mm,” Natasha says. “Business as usual? I must be a lucky man.”

Huh. Nat’s kind of hot as a guy.

“This is too much for me,” Bucky mutters. “Wake me up when the world goes back to normal.”

He sprawls back down on Clint’s chest comfortably, splaying one hand over his shoulder to keep them both horizontal. Clint blinks at Natasha a few times and then glances at Tony, who’s wearing Iron Man boots that are pink and silver instead of the usual red and gold. Okay, yeah, he gets why Bucky might want to sleep through this.

It’s a good plan.

Clint closes his eyes as well.

“Wake up,” Bucky hisses, and Clint opens his eyes to see space.

They’re in a spaceship.

“I don’t like this one,” he tells Bucky. He can see Bucky’s pained expression soften a little from inside the spacesuit, and one gloved hand pats his shoulder gently before Bucky hauls him off the metal grate he’s laying on. Once he’s on his feet he sighs and slumps into Bucky’s chest, leaning down so he can smack his helmeted face into fabric.

Bucky tugs him closer so they’re hugging for a brief, relieving second and then he steps back. Clint swallows back the urge to whine and straightens up, glances out at the world beyond the glass.

There’s something on fire out there. That should be impossible - there’s no fire out in space because there’s no _oxygen_ , what the fuck?

Bucky’s inspecting a control panel filled with buttons that don’t seem to be in English, and his frown is growing with every second. Clint sighs again, but he approaches the panel as well and tries to make sense of it.

It might as well be in Chinese. Actually, it’d be easier to understand in Chinese because Clint _knows_ Mandarin. He glances back at the glass and then sits down on the side of the control panel, thanking whatever’s out there that gravity works normally in the ship.

Bucky gives up and sits next to him a few minutes later.

They look at the window.

“This is fucked up,” Bucky says.

“Yeah,” Clint acknowledges. “Least we’ve got each other?”

He thinks Bucky’s going to laugh at that. It’s not a joke, not really, but he can’t imagine why Bucky would find his presence comforting in this completely absurd situation. They’re _dimension_ - _hopping_ , for god’s sake. Every time he thinks his life is going to be somewhat normal, something else happens.

“You and me, Barton,” Bucky says.

“Not married in this one, though,” Clint notes. “Is that, uh. Is the fire getting closer?”

“That it is,” Bucky agrees. “Think we can die here?”

He doesn’t sound particularly concerned. More resigned and unimpressed, maybe. Clint thinks maybe he’s sick of being in near-death and actual-death situations and Clint can’t blame him for that. It’s a fucked up situation.

Bucky pulls the helmet off of his head and shakes his hair out. Clint’s breath catches in his throat for a second - what if there’s no oxygen? - but Bucky’s fine, if a little displeased-looking. Clint figures _whatever_ and pulls his own helmet off a second later. The helmet hasn’t messed his own hair up anymore than usual.

“What do we do now?”

Clint looks at the fire. If they stay here then they’re fucked, no argument about it. It’s already starting to feel a little warm in here underneath the padding of his suit. Bucky’s scowling at the fire like it’s a mild inconvenience rather than a ball of death, and then he shifts a little closer so their thighs are touching. What’s that about?

Clint likes it, though, so he doesn’t say anything.

…he likes it.

Shit, he’s been trying really hard not to think about liking Bucky like that. Now’s not the time.

“Well,” Bucky says.

“Well,” Clint repeats.

Then again, if they’re going to die here he might as well.

Bucky makes a questioning noise as Clint catches his face in one hand to keep him relatively still, and then he’s pressing a quick, fleeting kiss to Bucky’s lips. Hey, if they’re gonna die, why not? It’s not like they can hop dimensions at wi-

“I got it,” Clint says, letting go of Bucky’s face.

Bucky looks dazed. “I- what?”

“We switch when we fall asleep,” Clint says, heart rate picking up. “Bucky. We can get out of this, shit. We just have to pass out.”

“You’re right,” Bucky says.

He sounds a little surprised, which, _rude_.

“Let’s go,” Clint says. “Quick, no more talking. Sleep."

It’s convenient, really. Bucky doesn’t argue with him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: Edits have been made, there's a new part to chapter one because I didn't like the way the chapters were spaced. I apologize. Thank you.

“ _Fuck_ , that’s cold,” Bucky shouts.

Clint blinks away the raindrops clinging to his eyelashes and realizes they’re standing in the middle of a road. It’s raining like a motherfucker, the water like drops of ice on his skin. Trees line both sides of the road with no sign of civilization in sight. There’s not even a car.

This dimension - Reality? Hallucination? - has apparently decided he doesn’t need proper clothes. Clint’s dressed in a pair of ripped jeans and a sleeveless hoodie that’s partially made of mesh. (He’s hesitant to say it’s a boob window, but that’s _exactly_ what it is.) It’s not made for standing in the middle of a storm, either way.

He flips the hood over his head and turns to see Bucky stamping his way to a spot under a tree. “That’s not gonna save you.”

“Fuck you too,” Bucky answers. “The hell are you wearing? Some kind of punk stripper shit?”

Clint snorts. “What about _you_?”

They haven’t deigned to give Bucky weather-appropriate clothes either. The difference is that Bucky doesn’t even have a hood. He’s in a thin white undershirt that’s soaked all the way through, enough that Clint can trace every ridge of his abs from a few meters away, his nipples perked up through the fabric.

Jesus. It's a little obscene.

“This isn’t the right place,” Bucky says when Clint joins him under the tree. Clint wraps his arms around himself in a weak attempt to keep himself warm as he leans up against the bark, the rough texture prodding him in the back. It’s _freezing_. If he gets hypothermia here, he’s not going to be happy.

“It’s not,” Clint agrees. “I’m missing a tattoo.”

“You- what?”

“In the real world I’ve got one - hang on,” and he tugs down the jeans enough to reveal a sliver of bare skin on his hipbone. Clint’s surprised Bucky didn’t already know about it. He’s accidentally naked often enough that he thought everyone knew, but maybe Bucky’s just a gentleman. (Tony isn’t. He’d gone on about it for weeks.) “See? It’s gone.”

“So it can mess with our bodies as well as everything else,” Bucky says, eyes averting to somewhere over Clint’s shoulder. His cheeks look a little red.

Clint looks to see if there’s anything there, but he can’t spot anything. Weird. “What now? I can’t take a nap in the middle of a storm, even if I take my aids out.” At least they’re waterproof.

“We should find some shelter,” Bucky says. “I’m fucking cold.”

“Supersoldiers get cold?” Huh. “Maybe you are real people after all.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and shoves at Clint’s shoulders before he starts walking down the road. Whatever weirdness was lingering around them dissipates and Clint laughs before he catches up to Bucky, forgetting for a second that he basically forced a kiss on the guy.

Aw, shit.

He hopes _Bucky_ forgot about it.

“Oh, thank god,” Clint says when they see the motel.

“Don’t thank him yet,” Bucky mutters. “If we get attacked by a serial killer, I’m not gonna be happy.”

Is _anyone_ happy to be attacked by a serial killer? It’s not the ideal place to spend the night, Clint agrees with Bucky on that. The neon sign is flickering so much it’s giving Clint a headache to look at it, and the motel itself looks like no one’s checked up on it in a good fifty years. There’s no sign of other people.

It’s creepy.

The motel is the only place that they’ve seen this whole time though, and it’s also surrounded by trees that stretch out as far as he can make out.

“I don’t like it either, but I think I’m going to turn into a popsicle if we keep walking,” Clint says reluctantly. He’s already shivering uncontrollably. “Human metabolism, remember?”

“Right,” Bucky says. “Okay. You armed?”

“Gun in the back of my pants, knife in my boot, knife in my other boot, and I could strangle someone with my shirt if those aren’t an option,” Clint returns. He misses his bow, but at least he’s got something. Bucky nods approvingly and they head down to the reception area, Clint going first because he’s got marginally better social skills.

“One room, two beds,” he says, slapping a handful of cash on the desk.

The woman doesn’t even look at him. Clint’s not sure she’s even heard him until a hand shoots out and snatches the cash away. The movement is so sudden that he jumps a little, but she’s still looking down at her copy of _That’s Life_.

“Only one bed available,” she says. “We’re booked out.”

Clint looks out at the empty parking lot and then back to her. “ _Where?_ ”

She’s not impressed by that.

Clint sighs and catches the key she throws at his head, turns to Bucky and hopes there’s at least a heater of some kind. “You care about sharing a bed?”

“I can sleep on the floor,” Bucky says.

“You could,” Clint agrees, “but it sounds fucking uncomfortable. I promise I don’t bite.”

The room is unimpressive to say the least, but there _is_ a heating unit that Clint switches on the moment he notices it. A blast of stale air hits him in the face and he grimaces before he’s hit in the face with a threadbare towel.

“I ain’t sharing a bed with you if you’re wet,” Bucky says, which gives Clint some interesting thoughts. He forgets about it a second later in favour of peeling off his damp jeans.

The sheer relief of not being stuck to wet denim is nearly orgasmic, and after a second he gets rid of the useless mesh hoodie as well. Bucky’s seen it all before, it doesn’t matter. Similarly, he’s seen a lot of Bucky before, so Clint’s not sure why he gets stuck staring when he looks up and sees droplets of water sliding down Bucky’s bare back.

He sneezes before he can say anything embarrassing, luckily.

“Fuck’s sake,” Bucky mutters. “Dry your damn hair and get under the covers before you die.”

“I mean,” Clint says, casting the duvet a dubious look. “I might die if I _do_ get under the covers.”

“You’ve slept on worse,” Bucky replies, which is true but also not necessarily comforting.

Then again, the quicker he gets warm, the quicker they get out of here. The heater’s taking a while to go from vaguely warm to hot and Clint hits it with the palm of his hand before he gives up and pulls the covers back. His boxers are thin enough that he can leave them on - they’ll dry, and he thinks sleeping naked is probably taking it a step too far.

Clint rolls onto his side so he’s facing away from Bucky, curls his legs up close to try and generate more heat. He considers taking his hearing aids out, but with what’s going on that feels like asking for trouble. He’s just going to have to deal with it. There’s rustling from behind him and then the mattress dips with Bucky’s weight. He’s so warm Clint can feel it without their skin touching.

“You seem like you’re dealing with this pretty well,” Clint says.

“So do you,” Bucky answers dryly. “We’ve both seen weirder.”

“Guess so,” Clint concedes. “Night, Buck.”

“Night.”

“Yeah, I can’t sleep,” he says an indeterminate amount of time later. “What the _fuck_ , it’s so cold. Did we land in the Antarctic?”

“Antarctic doesn’t have trees,” Bucky replies, and then there’s a hand looping over his waist. Clint blinks his eyes open and stares at the water-damaged wallpaper as Bucky’s bare chest comes into contact with his back. It’s deliciously warm and he’s trying very, very hard not to push back into the touch.

“Better?”

“Huh? Oh- yeah. Thanks.”

It’s _more_ than better. This whole thing is a fucking mess and the only place he feels comfortable is with Bucky Barnes spooning him. Clint lets out a sigh that sounds heavier than he means it to and turns his face into the musty-smelling pillow. Bucky just settles in closer and tucks his knees behind Clint’s like he’s perfectly at home there.

It’s nice.

Either way Clint’s glad he’s not doing this alone, even if he’d rather not do it at all.

He’s drifting when Bucky speaks again. “Why did you kiss me?"

Oh, they're going there. Clint was really hoping Bucky wouldn’t bring it up. Like, at all. He was happier just pretending that he hadn’t done it altogether. It’s a little late for that now. “I thought we were dying.”

“You thought we were dying, so you… kissed me?”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “Don’t worry about it, Buck.”

“What if I want to worry about it?”

That’s not what he’s expecting. Another thing he’s not expecting is the way Bucky’s hips shift closer against his and _oh wow_ that’s Bucky’s clothed dick pressing on his ass. Their underwear isn’t doing anything to mask it at all and Clint freezes, stares wide-eyed at the wall. He doesn’t feel like going to sleep anymore.

“I know this isn’t the right time,” Bucky says. “But you’re right, I don’t want to miss out on this if it’s an option.”

“You sure know how to charm a guy,” Clint says, voice shaking a little when Bucky’s lips brush the sensitive spot on the back of his neck. The arm over his hip shifts so Bucky’s fingers are touching the hem of his boxers, just on the inside of his thigh. It sends a shiver up Clint’s spine. He’s not ready for this. He hadn’t even realized that _this_ was an option.

“I’ll show _you_ charm,” Bucky says. It doesn’t sound like a threat; more like a promise.

It’s a promise Clint’s happy to take him up on, even in the situation they’re in. Consequences don’t seem like a big deal when they’re not even in the same _world_. He takes a deep breath to steel himself and then catches Bucky’s hand, slides it up his own thigh so Bucky’s fingers are on his half-hard cock through his boxers.

Bucky squeezes his dick gently and then hooks a few fingers in the waistband to try and tug them down. Clint lifts his hips to help it move along and Bucky shifts away from him for a few seconds to take his own off, and then they fall back into the same position.

Clint’s used to face-to-face sex, he’s used to giving blowjobs while looking up through his eyelashes at people, he’s used to meaningless fucking that’s for the singular purpose of getting off.

Instead he’s got Bucky curled around his back warm and solid, one arm touching his waist and fingers wrapping around Clint’s dick. Bucky’s nose brushes the soft hair at the back of Clint’s head and it makes him shiver a little from the touch. It’s kind of _tender_ and nice in a way he’s not expecting, like Bucky’s looking after him.

“This okay?”

“Very, _very_ okay,” Clint says fervently as Bucky’s dick rubs up against his ass. “If you stop I might cry, and I’m - _shit_ \- I’m only half-kidding.”

Regardless of whether Bucky thinks he’s joking or not, he doesn’t stop. Clint’s breath hitches embarrassingly when he shifts and Bucky’s cock pushes between his thighs instead, close enough to rub against his balls. Bucky’s own breathing sounds a little laboured in Clint’s ears as he rolls his hips, fingers rubbing over the head of his dick.

It’s not the time or the place for anything more involved, especially because they don’t even have lube.

It doesn’t stop Clint from imagining it, Bucky’s cock sliding into him.

It’s been a while since Clint’s done that; Bucky’d probably have to fingerfuck him first to make it easier, and he could do it with those goddamn metal fingers. (Clint would ask him to, honestly. It’s hot.)

The way Bucky’s hips move smoothly against his, he’d be good at it too. God, he wants it, but all he can do is breathe shakily against the dusty pillow, squeeze his thighs together and try not to come embarrassingly soon.

Except apparently he doesn’t have to because as soon as he thinks that, Bucky’s thrusts turn erratic and he bites down on that sensitive spot on Clint’s neck. Clint’s thighs feels slick when he shifts them and _oh god Bucky just came from fucking his thighs_. Bucky’s hand is still jerking him off and Clint muffles the too-loud noises in cotton when his orgasm washes over him, his brain blanking out for a few minutes.

“Fuck,” he says once he’s regained some of his body function back. “Why haven’t we done that before?”

Bucky snorts against the back of his neck. It tickles. “You flirt with everyone. How was I supposed to know?”

Clint pauses to think about that. It’s true that he _does_ do that, but it’s never serious. (It's always been serious with Bucky.)

Some part of him's wondering about all this - the rose petals and the slow motion and the accidental marriages and the bedsharing, and it makes him wonder if there's some kind of higher power pushing them together.

Except if that woman had any powers beyond shoving them into alternate dimensions, they'd be dead. She would've pushed them straight into hell at the first opportunity. So either it's a completely random coincidence, or they actually get together in all these random universes. In more than _one_ of them.

“I let you have the coffee,” he says eventually.

Bucky’s quiet for a minute. “Yeah, okay. That mean you’d want to do this again?”

“I think I will literally die if you try for round two,” Clint confesses. 

“Fuck off,” Bucky says. “I meant _after_ we get out of this mess.”

Clint’s kind of glad that Bucky can’t see the delighted grin creeping onto his face in the darkness.

“ _Storm the castle_ ,” a man shouts right next to him, and Clint flinches.

“What the f-”

He watches as a swarm of knights - honest to god knights, in shining silver armour with swords - charge down the hill he’s standing on. Some of them are shouting loud enough that his ears are aching from the feedback in his aids and he takes a step back, tries to make sense of it.

They _are_ storming the castle, too. It’s the biggest one Clint’s ever seen, a huge towering structure made of concrete and fire with red flags waving in the breeze. Clint looks down and realizes he’s in some sort of medieval leather bullshit, although it’s covering more than the last outfit did.

His bow’s in his hand, at least.

“What are you _doing_ , Sir Barton?”

Clint lets out a hysterical-sounding bark of laughter at _Sir Barton_ before he realizes the man yelling at him is Steve, or at least some alternate version of Steve. This version of Steve is only five feet tall and somehow twice as intimidating, and when he points one gloved hand at the castle Clint gives in and starts shooting.

“Thank you,” Steve says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint replies distractedly, nocking another arrow. “Where’s Bucky?”

“Bucky?”

Steve’s blank look tells him all that he needs to know. Bucky’s not here. Aw, fuck. He’s a little worried about trying to switch without Bucky’s presence in case one of them gets lost. It’s not like a normal kind of lost, either - if they get knocked off course here they might be knocked off course for the rest of eternity, and that’s horrific.

Clint shoots a man in the throat and Steve jerks next to him, turning around and looking up at the sky. That’s not a normal reaction and Clint’s kind of nervous about seeing what’s grasped Steve’s attention in the middle of a fight but he looks anyway.

“Oh wow,” he says. “Hello.”

“ _Run_ ,” Steve yells as the dark shape in the sky bellows a stream of golden fire into the air.

Clint’s frozen though, watching with wide eyes as the dragon draws closer. It’s big and solid and black as night, huge leathery wings stretching out far enough that Clint’s half-expecting it to block out the sun, and it’s heading right for them.

Or it _would_ be them, but Steve’s nowhere to be seen. Clint glances around and sees him trying to turn a cannon twice his size. It’s not working in the slightest and yet Steve doesn’t seem to be giving up anytime soon. That’s Steve for you, though.

Clint’s too distracted to remember to get out of the way.

By the time he looks up, it’s close enough that he could start counting the scales. The dragon flaps its wings and he has to brace himself on a trunk to stay upright as it lowers down to the hill with a thud that knocks over a few weak-looking trees.

It bares its teeth and Clint trips over his own feet, lands directly on his ass. It’s not his finest moment.

“Oh wow,” Clint says again, stares at the dragon. It growls so loudly that the ground rumbles underneath his hands, and Clint lowers his bow as he notices the giant metal leg. “ _Bucky_?”

The dragon’s slitted blue eyes squint at him as it leans in closer. Clint stays where he is and the dragon comes close enough that he can feel each sizzling hot, burning puff of air from its nostrils, and then it nudges at him until there are teeth sinking delicately into his jacket and shirt, careful to avoid skin.

Then he’s being lifted into the air and Steve’s yelling something about kidnapping, but is it _really_ kidnapping if you’re fine with it?


	3. Chapter 3

Clint opens his eyes to a bird chirping.

It’s an improvement from Steve’s yelling, so he watches it dance on a branch for a while before he turns away from the window to take stock of his situation. He’s not sure where they are, but the weather’s nice at least. Bucky’s sitting up on the couch when Clint catches sight of him, wearing an oversized sweater that’s slipping off one shoulder.

He’s also _human_ , which, hooray.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Clint says. “I’m not into bestiality, but I was starting to consider it.”

“Barton.”

“You were a fucking _dragon_ , man! A dragon with fire breath and a great big metal leg! That’s the coolest shit, you can’t blame me for being a little turned on by it.”

Bucky heaves a sigh.

“I’ve slept with aliens before,” Clint adds.

Bucky covers his face with his newly-returned hand. It’s at that moment that Clint realizes he’s missing the metal arm, which is- hmm. Interesting. Bucky either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t particularly care about it, because he facepalms just fine with the one. They don’t seem to be in any danger, so it probably doesn’t matter.

“Your face is weird,” Bucky says when he gets bored of pretending he doesn’t like Clint.

“Thanks,” Clint replies. “Real helpful, Buck.”

“No,” Bucky says, getting to his feet. He pads over and Clint thinks he’s getting a kiss, but Bucky just swivels him around so he’s facing the mirror. “I mean your face looks weird _now_ , not that it looks weird all the time.”

Clint gets what he means. There’s scars missing, creases vanished off of his face, and the tips of his hair are dyed bright pink. He realizes a second later it’s because he’s _younger_ , which is a hell of a trip. He was kind of lanky and awkward-looking in his early twenties, huh.

“You’re cute,” Bucky says.

“Easy for you to say,” Clint replies. “You’ve only physically aged five years in the last _eighty_. How am I supposed to go back to my old, creaky body now?”

“I like your old creaky body,” Bucky says, patting his hip. “Why are we like this, anyway?”

“Judging from the cramped room and all the books on art history, I’d say we’re in college,” Clint says. “Think we’re roommates?”

“Nah,” Bucky says as the door opens to his right. “I wouldn’t have gone for the arts. Ain’t got a creative bone in my body.”

“Hey, Barton. Barnes.”

“Wilson,” Clint returns, and then does a double-take because Wade is _hot_ without the whole melting-face Freddy Krueger thing. (He’s kind of hot with it too, but Clint’s not going there. Wade’s too much for him.) Wade leaves a second later and Clint lets out a sigh and leans back into Bucky. Supersoldier or not, Bucky holds him up easily, hooking his chin over Clint’s shoulder.

“Can we just lie down for a second? Please?”

“Couch might be a little cramped,” Bucky returns, but he tugs Clint over anyway, rearranges them until Clint’s cheek is pressed into the worn cotton of Bucky’s sweater and their fingers are linked together loosely. It settles something scrambling in the recesses of Clint’s skull and he relaxes for what feels like the first time in years.

“Is it awful if I say I’m glad you got hit as well?”

“Nah,” Bucky says, squeezes his fingers gently. “If I’d had a choice, I would’ve followed you anyway.”

“Okay,” Clint says, and it _isn’t_ okay but it’s something.

“ _Duck_ ,” someone shouts and Clint drops on instinct, barely avoiding silver-tipped claws that sweep past him. His balance feels off as he twists out of the way of teeth and horns, scrabbles for a weapon. He’s wearing some kind of strappy tactical gear and there’s a gun in the small of his back that he pulls out and starts firing automatically.

Unfortunately he misses the other monster creeping up behind him.

It smacks him into the air and he hits a rock with enough force that it cracks. The wind’s knocked out of him and he wheezes and blinks up at the sky, sees the same red sky that he remembers from somewhere else.

It’s all wrong. Not in the same way it’d been in the last dimension - his limbs feel different and his center of gravity feels completely wrong, and he’s listing to the left in a way he shouldn’t be. The monster in front of him shrieks so loud that he has to back up.

An arrow hits it in the side of the head, just under one massive eye and there’s an explosion of heat and viscous black goo that hits the sand and sizzles it. A hand catches the back of his suit and tugs him behind the wreckage of a tank, and Clint comes face-to-face with his own face.

“I don’t like that,” he says instantly, and watches his own expression crinkle into a familiar scowl that doesn’t work at all. It’s familiar, though.

“I don’t like it either,” Bucky says. “You think I can use a bow?”

They switch weapons and then Clint looks down at the metal hand he’s gripping the bow with, winces. Yeah, that’s not great. He’s not trained in supersoldier strength - he’s worried that it’s going to snap in two if he tries to shoot something the way he does normally.

“What are those things?”

“Don’t know,” Clint says, and it’s really weird hearing it in Bucky’s voice. “Think we should make a break for it?”

“We can’t kill them like this,” Bucky agrees. “It’s- we could _try_ , but it’d be hard. We should get somewhere safe so we can change over.”

“Right,” Clint says, glancing around the landscape he can see from their shelter. “Safe. Yeah. You see anything that isn’t sand or monsters?”

“We’ll find something,” Bucky says. “Don’t really have a choice.”

Clint’s got no idea how Bucky’s staying optimistic - or _functional_ , even. He’s exhausted. Even though they’re technically sleeping every time they switch, his body hasn’t gotten the notice. Everything hurts and all he can think about is how much he misses being _home_.

He sucks in a breath and it catches in a worrying way. He can’t cry. It’s not the fucking time. They don’t have the _time_ for him to break down, not in some kind of apocalyptic wasteland where they’re not even in the right bodies. Bucky needs him to be useful, not… hysterically sobbing in the sand like a child. Fuck.

“Barton,” Bucky says, and it’s a little softer.

“I want to go _home_ ,” Clint says, and it sounds so pitiful that he cringes a little. “I’m sick of this. I just want my old body and my dog and my friends, _fuck_. I hate it here. I’m so goddamn tired.”

Bucky’s - _Clint’s_ \- face creases in sympathy at that.

Clint knows he’s being stupid. They’ve been through worse, they’d established that at the start of this. There’s no reason for him to start falling apart now. Except - how long are they going to have to do this? How many _violations_ does he have to endure before they get to the right place and the right time?

“We’re gonna get back,” Bucky says. “Come on. You and me, right? We got this, Barton, don’t give up on me now.”

“Sorry,” Clint says, scrubs at his eyes with the hand that isn’t metal. “Shit. I’m sorry. Why does everything _hurt_?”

“Serum doesn’t work as well as Steve’s does,” Bucky answers with a hint of apology in his voice. Does that mean Bucky _always_ aches like this? Jesus. How the hell does he put up with it? “Look, I’m gonna go out there and find somewhere for us to go. Alright?”

“Alright,” Clint repeats and Bucky cups his face quickly, leans in to press a kiss to his lips. He looks quiet and determined when he gets to his feet and Clint should go with him, he can’t make Bucky go out there on his own in a body he can’t work.

He gets his knees under him again and stands up just as Bucky’s running out behind a clawed hand. It gives him the perfect view of Bucky swinging to the side to dodge one, raising his gun to shoot it in the eye as another monster pounces on him from the left. Clint grabs for an arrow but it feels like he’s in slow motion, and as he draws back he realizes there’s no point.

It’s too late.

Clint sees the blood and stops.

The monsters shriek and he throws the bow at the sand, curls back down by the ruins of the tank. His breathing’s coming so fast that he feels like he’s going to lose consciousness and he claps his hands over his ears when there’s a wet chewing noise, pushes down hard enough to hurt. Oh fuck. It can’t be real. It’s not real. He’s back at the Tower having a fucking horrible, terrible dream, that’s all.

That’s all it is.

He closes his eyes and tries to let it all fade out.

Clint wakes up to a hand shaking his shoulder. “You can’t sleep here. Order a drink or get out.”

“Sorry,” he says automatically.

It still takes him a few minutes to open his eyes. It feels like there’s sand and grit in them still, even though his body feels like _his_ again. There’s smooth wood under his fingers though and when he lifts his head he realizes he’s in some sort of bar.

There’s a crowd of men in uniforms crowded on the other side, some with hats and guns and some with nothing at all. It takes Clint a few minutes to connect the uniforms with the ones he’s seen in movies, because he’s never taken a history class in his life and museums bore the shit out of him.

Those are definitely WW2 outfits though, and Clint’s seen a photo of Dum Dum Dugan on Steve’s dresser. That’s definitely the guy, based on the impressive-looking moustache. Clint rubs at his own face and sighs at how scratchy it feels. He can’t really bring himself to care, though.

Great. Now he’s time-travelling.

Time-travelling _alone_.

Well, they started the dimension-hopping with trying to get stinking drunk, so he might as well end it that way too.

“Give me the worst stuff you have,” he says.

A minute later he’s passed a bottle of absinthe. He’s pretty sure that’s illegal right now but he still hands over a handful of different-looking coins before he gets to his feet. At least the dimension-hopping magic has deigned to give him comfortable boots.

As he’s stalking out the door he crashes into someone and knocks them straight off their feet. They go tumbling to the ground and Clint inwardly and outwardly grimaces because he doesn't want to get into a bar fight now. 

“Watch it, pal,” the guy mutters as Clint reaches out a hand to help him up.

His heart’s in his throat. “Bucky?”

The man casts a slightly curious glance at him. It’s definitely Bucky’s _body_ , because Clint would know that particular shade of blue-grey in his irises anywhere. He’s looking more battered than Clint’s used to - the dark green of his shirt is stained with blood and dirt, unbuttoned haphazardly to reveal a sliver of bare skin and chest hair.

He’s the most beautiful thing Clint’s ever seen.

“Do I know you?"

Clint knows deep down in his bones that this isn’t _his_ Bucky. His Bucky doesn’t stand like that; like he’s being actively haunted by something, shadows in the corner of his eyes and bruises blooming in red and purple on his cheeks. There’s a spark of fire in this man’s eyes that _his_ Bucky doesn’t have, some aimless flare of anger at the world in general.

“Look, I’m bad with names, pal,” younger Bucky says. “We bumped into each other before?”

Definitely time travel, then.

“I’m-” the words get stuck in his throat like barbed wire and stick there. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Alright,” Bucky says cautiously. There’s no recognition there. Why would there be? His Bucky died in the sand, in a body that didn’t belong to him.

Clint pushes past the younger Bucky and throws the bottle aside on his way, gets outside and takes a lungful of the smoke-filled air to steady himself.

It doesn’t work.

Clint sits on the steps and buries his face in his hands. It doesn’t do anything to comfort him - or to drown out the shouting from inside, and it’s getting louder. Someone’s started a fight, he thinks. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

Oh god. What if he’s lost _his_ Bucky forever?

Footsteps echo next to him and then someone’s sitting beside him, not quite close enough to touch. Clint doesn’t raise his head to look until he hears the swish of a match. At that moment he glances to the side and sees Bucky - _young_ Bucky, baby Bucky, Bucky without all of the messy parts that Clint’s learned and memorized - passing him a smoke.

“You’re too young for that,” Clint says as he takes it. Technically Bucky could be in his mid-twenties by now, but he looks brittle to Clint in a way that words don’t explain, something cracked and fragile just below the surface.

Bucky lifts one shoulder underneath the holes in his shirt. His dog tags jingle gently when he does it. “Old enough to die for a fight that shouldn’t have to be fought. What’s it matter?”

It’s like that with war, Clint supposes. He still doesn’t give the cigarette back when Bucky motions for him to hand it over. Bucky doesn’t seem too put out, because he just sighs and leans back against the steps. It’s gotta hurt his back.

“You got some kinda brain damage?”

“Sure,” Clint says. “Something like that. Thought you were someone else.”

It can't make sense to anyone else. Clint had said Bucky's name, and Bucky had heard him. This Bucky’s quiet for a few seconds, looking down at his own boots, and then he fixes Clint with a knowing look. “You lost him?”

“Something like that,” Clint repeats. _Lost_ probably doesn’t encompass all of his feelings on the matter, but there isn’t a word for that.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Me too. Keep seeing someone who looks like him, but it ain’t the same. It’s never gonna be the same, ‘specially not out here.”

Huh. Clint had always wondered if there’d been something there. He thinks about asking if it was one-sided, but what’s the point of torturing himself? (Even if the situation was different he can’t compete, so it’s better if he just doesn’t dig that hole.)

“Hey,” Bucky says. “You wanna get out of here?”

“ _Shit_ ,” and there’s a sting of pain in his scalp as his hair’s pulled.

Clint welcomes it because the pain pulls him back from the recesses of his own head, the echoes of memories. He’s mostly working on muscle memory here rather than any sort of active skill, but his body remembers how blowjobs go; vary the pressure, flick the tongue, for the love of god don’t choke.

His lack of enthusiasm doesn’t seem to be noticed - that, or Bucky already knows he’s not that into it and is pretending he doesn’t for Clint’s own sake. He needs the distraction, so when the fingers in his hair tighten Clint tugs back against it, makes a noise when Bucky gets rougher. _That’s_ it.

It’s too soon when Bucky’s thighs start shaking but Clint takes mercy on him anyway, swallows around his dick and lets him ride it out.

He doesn’t ask for reciprocation. Bucky glances down at his face and must see something there that stops him from offering.

“You’re good at that,” Bucky tells him, buttoning up his pants. He looked dishevelled before so it’s hard to tell the difference, but there’s a little more life in his face, a little more pink in his cheeks.

Clint wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and offers Bucky a smile that doesn’t quite feel right on his lips. It’s all he’s got. He’d known before this Bucky had grabbed him by the collar and started sucking on his throat that it wouldn’t do anything for the steadily growing emptiness inside him, but he’d tried anyway.

“Thanks,” he says, doesn’t bother getting off the ground. There’s some kind of damp patch he’s sitting in but he doesn’t care. May as well grow some mould while he’s here.

“My pleasure. See you around?”

“Probably not,” Clint answers, doesn’t feel bad about being honest.

Bucky looks like he gets it, even if he can’t possibly understand what’s going on. He goes to leave and Clint leans back against the bricks, stares at the wall opposite and feels his skin going cold where his shirt’s been tugged and pants shoved down.

“Barnes,” he calls before he can stop himself. Bucky turns around, war-weathered and somehow still so soft that it makes Clint’s chest hurt to look at him. Clint’s about to say _don’t go on that train, stay here so you’re safe_ , and then he stops.

He can’t, is the thing. What if it makes things worse? There’s no guarantee Bucky will be safer in the middle of a war than he would be with Steve. Clint wouldn’t wish what happens to Bucky on his worst enemy, but he doesn’t know how time travel works and he’s so goddamn tired.

(What if he loses Bucky before they’ve even met?)

“You’re gonna make it out of this,” he says eventually, and Bucky’s lips twist up in a familiar wry smirk. Clint misses him so much.

“Thanks, pal,” is the reply he gets, and then Bucky’s gone.

Clint slumps back against the wall and closes his eyes.

Natasha’s lying unconscious on the ground when Clint blinks himself out of the haze of smoke and gunfire. She looks like _his_ Natasha, but there’s gold weaved into the red of her hair and scars that he doesn’t remember, and he wonders when or where he is.

It’s silent here.

_Here_ doesn’t even seem to be on Earth; he looks out across the sky and sees a dappled purple sky and the reflection of a planet behind the clouds. There's no spacesuit this time though, and he's got his bow. The rocks under his feet are blue and there’s a ringing in his ears that he can’t quite stifle.

He sees Bucky a few seconds later, on his knees at the edge of a cliff. It’s familiar, at least - long hair, metal arm, all in black like he thinks goth is still in fashion. (It absolutely is, he’s hot.) Bucky’s looking at something down below, so preoccupied with whatever it is that he hasn’t even noticed Clint standing there.

There’s a distant _boom_ and a wash of golden light that makes Clint shield his eyes from it.

When he lowers his arm Bucky’s getting to his feet, something clenched tight in one fist. There’s a weak glow coming from it and Clint’s never seen that kind of flat hatred from Bucky at _anything_ , but whatever it is, Bucky doesn’t like it.

“Who pissed in your cornflakes,” he says when Bucky lifts his head.

It falls a little flat as a joke, and the glow disappears from Bucky's hand. He looks down, opens his fist and there's nothing in it. Weird. Are they dealing with magic in this universe? Bucky’s eyes go wide, panicked.

There’s recognition there, at least. This Bucky knows who he is. “What the fuck?”

“That’s not polite,” Clint says. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“You-” Bucky says, looks back at the cliff. “But you’re-”

“I’m _what_ , Buck? Handsome? Devilishly charming?”

Bucky’s palm connects with his face a second later and the blow’s hard enough that Clint’s head snaps to the side painfully. It stings like a _motherfucker_ and he flinches when Bucky grabs the back of the jacket he’s wearing.

“I’m not letting you die for us again,” Bucky shouts at him, and Clint’s so bewildered by it that he pauses for a second.

Bucky lets go of the back of his jacket - black and gold, and he’s not sure where it actually came from (where’s the purple?) - and then grabs the strap of his quiver instead, yanks him down and forward until their lips are connecting. It’s not the most artful kiss Clint’s ever been involved in, kinda awkward and off-center, but it’s the least confusing part of all this.

It feels like days before Bucky lets go of him, shoving him roughly to the ground. A rock is digging into his spine and Clint’s about to ask _hey, what the fuck_ , except Bucky turning away from him now.

Clint notices Bucky’s left arm is the same black and gold as the suit he’s wearing. What does _that_ mean?

“Bucky, I never died,” he says.

“You won’t this time,” Bucky says, and Clint shoves up onto his elbows just in time to watch him make a run for the cliff.

Clint reacts purely on instinct, pulling an arrow out of his quiver and shooting it at the weak spot he knows is on Bucky’s arm. It pierces the metal and Bucky’s yanked backwards by the rope attacked to it as Clint gets to his feet.

He’s not strong enough to hold a supersoldier though, and Bucky knows that. Clint drops the rope suddenly and while Bucky’s regaining his balance he breaks into a run, the only thought in his head being to stop this madness. He doesn’t even have the time to wonder _why_ Bucky’s trying to launch himself off the side of a cliff.

Bucky’s fast - too fast, and Clint only manages to grab the back of his suit as he jumps, dragging them both over the side. Clint still has his bow in the other hand and he jams it into a hole in the rock, pulling them to an abrupt stop that jars his shoulder and sends a flare of pain through his arm.

“Let me _go_ ,” Bucky yells.

“Fucking climb back up, you idiot,” Clint shouts back.

“No!”

“I’m not in the mood for suicidal tendencies, Barnes!”

“ _I can’t watch you die_ ,” Bucky shouts and there’s so much _pain_ under the surface of his voice. Clint tastes sand, sees blood and gore behind his eyelids when he blinks and _you and me, right? We got this, Barton, don’t give up on me now._

The bow chooses that moment to snap from their combined weight, and as they tumble down, Clint grabs Bucky’s hand and holds on as hard as he can. There’s no coming back from this.

It’s a fitting way to go, he supposes.

Just before he hits the ground, he notices the slim silver ring on his left finger.

He gets the feeling that it wasn't an accident this time.


	4. Chapter 4

There’s an insistent beeping in his ears.

“Someone shut that fucking thing off,” he mutters, rolls over to try and bury his head underneath the pillow.

The movement tugs at the back of his hand uncomfortably. It's unpleasant enough that he can't fall back to sleep. When he inhales there’s only the smell of chemicals in bleach in his nose, and he tries to blink his eyes open only to discover they’re crusted shut. Gross. He uses his other hand to scrub at his eyelids roughly until he can see blurry white walls and a stack of machinery.

_Hospital_ , his brain supplies helpfully.

...what’s he in the hospital for?

He sits up and nearly throws up as well when his stomach lurches uncomfortably. His head aches. It feels like he’s been thrown off a building. He’s hooked up to a bunch of machines that are all making noises that stab directly into the meat of his brain, and he doesn’t know where he is or how he got here. His back hurts. 

He’s also having trouble remembering who he _is_ , which is not great.

A quick glance around confirms there’s no doctors or nurses around to watch him, so he slides down the bed until he can grab the clipboard sitting at the end. Most of the writing is incomprehensible - unsurprising, doctors. Some of the information is typed out though, luckily, and he scans that quickly.

_I_ _njuries Unknown_ , it says. _Requires Further Testing For Diagnosis_.

Interesting. A mystery illness for a mystery man.

He turns it over so he can read the personal details.

“Barton,” he reads aloud. “Clinton F.”

“What’s the F stand for?”

“Beats me,” he says, turns his head to see a guy lying in the hospital bed next to him. “Flamingo? Fuck? Fabulous?”

“You don’t _look_ fabulous in that gown,” the guy says dryly, and he looks down to see it’s patterned with little orange cats. He's seen the cat somewhere before. Gerald?

“I’m more of a dog person,” he agrees. Frowns. “I think.”

“You think?”

“Can’t remember,” he explains, points at his own head. Between the amnesia and the splitting headache he'd half-expected it to be swathed in bandages but there’s only a few butterfly stitches above his eyebrow. Not caused by head trauma, then. His hair feels kind of gross and crackly, like he hasn’t washed it in weeks.

“Me either,” the guy says. “You want to pass me the details too, while you’re down there?”

He obliges, reaching across to grab the guy’s clipboard and tossing it to him. The guy catches it with his left hand and they both stare at the silver fingers catching the light.

“Cool hand,” he says.

“Thanks,” the guy answers. “I’d tell you where you could buy one if I knew.”

_Can_ you buy cool metal hands? He can't remember.

The guy starts reading his information. He - Clinton, except that doesn’t feel _quite_ right - just watches, because there's something that's keeping his eyes there.

The guy’s pretty in a way that feels familiar, cracks open something tender and a little painful in his chest. His hair’s long and soft-looking, falling over a stubbled jaw and pursed lips. The metal fingers are touching letters on the clipboard carefully where his name is written on the information.

The guy’s _also_ wearing a silly hospital gown; his is covered in pale pink cherry blossoms. It's cute.

The beeping is driving him nuts. So are the blank white walls and the smells. He's lacking the memories to back it up, but it's becoming extremely clear he can't put up with this place much longer. He tugs a few sensors off of his chest and the noise dies down somewhat, so he starts methodically removing them all. (He knows how to remove each one so that the alarms aren’t triggered, and he’s not sure he wants to know why that is.)

He's noticed after a few minutes. “What’re you doing?”

“Getting out of here,” he tells the guy as he pulls out the IV. “I don’t like hospitals, apparently.”

“Huh. Where you gonna go?”

“No clue,” he says.

The guy tosses his clipboard aside. “Alright, let’s go. You see any proper clothes around or are we climbing out the window in these?”

“Look, I still remember how to drive,” he says cheerfully, tapping the wheel as he takes the first exit he sees.

“ _Driving_ is a strong word for it,” his companion grumbles from the passenger seat.

“Have some faith. We haven’t crashed yet,” he offers to- “What was your name, anyway?”

“James, apparently. Sounds wrong though,” James says.

“Yeah,” he says. “Mine too.”

They’d managed to steal a couple of pairs of sweatpants from a cupboard. He’s just wearing the sweatpants - the orange catted gown was left on the hospital bed along with their _Stark Medical_ wristbands.James is wearing his underneath the hospital gown like the extra layers will protect his modesty.

He can hotwire cars as well as remove IVs safely, as it turns out. It makes him wonder what kind of a guy he is. Probably not a good one, based on all the scars and the law-breaking. He doesn’t even have a cool metal arm, just purple janky things behind his ears that he’s pretty sure are because his hearing’s fucked.

They’re headed… somewhere out of the city. His muscles know where to go, and he can only hope it’s not a drug den they’re heading to.

“Think they’ll come looking for us?”

“Hope not,” he says. “I’m not exactly ready for a car chase.”

The skyscrapers start getting eaten up by trees the longer they drive. It’s calming, seeing nature again. He fiddles with the radio one-handed, switching through stations until he finds one that’s playing crackly classic rock. It works for a few minutes, until there’s a nasty screech and it turns into heavy metal.

“This is terrible,” James says after a few minutes.

“Do you remember what kind of music _you_ like?”

“...no,” comes the grouchy answer. “Just turn it onto the damn news or somethin’.”

He sighs but does as he’s told, finding the local news.

“ _...and in good news, the block destroyed by an unknown assailant has received all the funding required to rebuild,_ ” a woman says. “ _The assailant is nowhere to be found, but the people whose homes were destroyed have reason to hope._ ”

“Wild,” he says.

“Money makes the world go 'round,” James comments. "Bet the rich bastard's patting himself on the back."

“ _I’ve received word that two of the Avengers caught in the fight, Hawkeye and the Winter Soldier, who were hospitalized after their encounter with the villain, have disappeared from Stark Medical Hospital_ ,” the woman says. “ _James Barnes and Clint Barton were last seen in the SMH parking lot, where a witness claims they stole his vehicle._ ”

_Clint_ , not Clinton. That sounds better. 

Clint gives James a sideways glance. “That’s us, apparently. We’re… Avengers?”

“Hmm.” James pulls out a mobile phone and starts tapping away at it. Did he steal that? “The Avengers are a team of vigilante crime-fighters and superheroes based in Manhattan, New York.”

“Huh. And we’re-”

“That look like us to you?”

James holds up the phone and Clint squints at the blurry, off-center photo. That’s definitely the same face he sees in the rearview mirror, dressed in black and purple with a quiver full of arrows strapped to his back. The other one is also definitely the guy next to him, albeit minus the black leather. (It’s kinda hot.) He’s elbowing James in the photo and they’re both laughing at something.

“Oh hey,” he says. “We’re superheroes. Neat.”

“I thought superheroes wore their underwear on the outside,” James comments. "And less black."

“Maybe we’re… edgy superheroes? Goths?” He swipes at the screen. "Look, you've got the eye makeup for it."

The newswoman’s still talking as Clint turns his attention back to the road. “ _There are rumours they’ve been kidnapped or brainwashed by the enemy. Are these rumours true, Mister Stark?_ ”

“ _Nope,_ ” a man says. “ _Birdbrain, Terminator, if you’re watching this, Natasha’s on her way home and she’s going to eat you alive if you've wandered into traffic._ ”

“What’s that mean?”

“I don’t know,” James replies. “But I don’t like it. Keep driving.”

They end up at an old farmhouse with the roof partially caved in.

There’s a park bench that’s still standing by the dirt path, painted in splatters of purple and red and grey. It’s _familiar_ somehow, and Clint parks at the gate and then gets out. James follows him a second later and they both inspect the farmhouse curiously.

“Think that was us?” Clint points to the damage.

“Maybe,” James offers.

They sit down on the bench. There’s an obscene, crude sketch of someone with a circle and a star. It’s signed with an arrow. Probably his, then. James is staring up at the sky when he glances up from the doodle, something distant in his gaze like he's seeing something else. 

Clint - remembers a dingy motel room. Lips on his throat, black and gold, sand and fire. 

James isn't privy to his jumbled brain matter trying to rearrange itself. He looks down at then to the side at Clint, tips his head to the side curiously. “You think we were friends?”

“Looks like it. More than that, maybe,” Clint says. “You feel like there’s something here, or am I just some kind of a hopeless romantic when I’m not an amnesiac?”

“Don’t see why not. You _are_ attractive, when you ain’t talking,” James reasons with a shrug.

“And you’re a charmer, when you’re not being an asshole,” Clint says. When has James been an asshole to him? Except - he remembers a metal hand on his hip, the ghost of a smile. “Shit, my head hurts.”

“We’re all messed up in the brain,” James says, and somehow they’ve ended up closer, their faces a few inches away from each other like they're magnets. “We shouldn’t.”

“I don’t think I remember making good decisions,” Clint answers because there's old remembered feelings tugging at his brain that insist that he _wants_ this, and James closes the gap between their lips.

He’s pretty sure he’s not the kind of guy who goes around kissing strangers, but there’s some kind of draw to this guy, something that demands this is exactly where he needs to be. James doesn’t seem to have any qualms based on the way he leans into the touch like it’s lighting him up inside.

The kiss is fragile and fleeting; a barely-there touch of their lips, but it’s enough that some of the fragmented memories click together.

“ _Bucky_ ,” he says suddenly, a lightbulb going on inside his brain at the name.

“ _Clint_ ,” Bucky says, apparently having the same revelation.

It’s _stupid_ , that something as simple as a kiss makes it all flood back. He can see it in the back of his mind, though - Mario Kart in the Tower, Bucky stealing his dog in the mornings when he’s having trouble sleeping. That night at the motel, the jingle of dog tags. A deafening shriek in the back of his head.

“You’re _alive_ ,” Clint says, desperately touching Bucky’s cheeks, his neck, the curve of his shoulders. “I saw you- I thought you were-”

Bucky catches Clint’s increasingly panicked fingers in his own, holds on until Clint stops struggling against him. “Hey. Deep breaths.”

Clint looks into his eyes, tries to find something reassuring there. “You’re you, right?”

“Think so,” Bucky says. “Hard to tell with me, sometimes. Did you suck me off in an alleyway in Italy in the forties?”

“Yeah,” Clint admits, blinks back the wetness in his eyes. “Yeah, it was fucking terrible. I think I cried on your dick.”

They both dissolve into slightly hysterical laughter at that, and Clint thinks he’s probably crying a little when he presses his face into the curve of Bucky’s neck and breathes him in. It sounds like Bucky’s messed up over it too, at least, his right hand curling around Clint’s waist and pulling him in close.

“We’re in the right place, yeah?”

“Think so. I ain’t falling asleep again either way.”

“Never again,” Clint says. “We’re gonna start hanging out with Tony and make some kind of machinery so I never have to close my eyes again. _Bucky_ , shit. I’m so glad you’re okay. I love you.”

Bucky freezes against him and Clint realizes what he’s just said. Aw, fuck. That's embarrassing. And also _really_ not the time for dramatic love confessions.

Bucky pushes him back so Clint has to look him in the eye. “You love me?”

“I,” Clint says. Swallows. “You’re okay, I guess.”

Bucky snorts at him. “Yeah, okay. Next time I want you to say it to my face.”

That… yeah, he can try. “Okay.”

“Let’s go home before Natasha finds us,” Bucky says, stands up and keeps his grip on Clint’s hand. He starts walking back towards the car. “Do you remember what we did to this place, by the way?”

“Nope,” Clint says. It's hard to figure out things that you don't even remember. Is this how Bucky feels?

“Sounds like it’s someone else’s problem then,” Bucky says. “Your apartment? Figure we can squeeze in a little fun before we get swarmed.”

Clint can’t help the smile that drags itself onto his face. It kind of hurts with how much feeling is behind it, as Bucky’s fingers squeeze his.

“Not a word, Barton,” Bucky says. “I want to keep this to myself for now.”

“Oh.”

His face must do something because Bucky sighs and tugs him sideways so he can push Clint up against the fence, and then he tangles his free hand in Clint’s hair and pulls until he can comfortably reach Clint’s face to kiss him. It’s cute, really. He could just get on his tiptoes or lean up like a normal person would, but that wouldn’t be Bucky.

“Your friends,” Bucky says, right up against Clint’s mouth. “ _Our_ friends, are insufferable. That’s the only reason. Don’t do that to yourself.”

“I didn’t,” Clint protests, gets distracted when Bucky starts kissing him properly.

“Take my affection,” Bucky says when he pulls back.

It should be funny or maybe a little concerning. Mostly it’s sweet, though, and if he’s honest Clint would take Bucky’s affection no matter what dimension they were in.

"Alright, alright," he says. "I won't say anything."

"Good."

They get in the car - Bucky in the driver's seat, after a very pointed glare - and Clint glances out the window. The unease in his chest settles when he sees nothing but the landscape he's expecting, not a monster or a weird purple planet in sight. He unbuckles his seatbelt a second later to squirm around in his seat, much to Bucky's displeasure, and he sighs when he finds the spot on his hip, faded red ink exactly the way he'd left it.

He doesn't realize Bucky's looking until- "Wait, _that's_ what your tattoo is?"

"Yup," Clint says, sits back properly. "What, you don't like it?"

Bucky sighs, but there's a smile edging onto his lips. "All the different Clint Bartons in the universe, and I pick the one with a tattoo that says _tattoo_."


End file.
